


wanna x you (he comes)

by ninemoons42



Series: undernourished egos and rotating hips [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Groping, Held Down, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, Musicians, NSFW Promptis Week 2018, Pop music, Praise Kink, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Promptis Week 2018, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sexting, Song Lyrics, Wall Sex, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, just a slight one, tied down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-03 07:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15814326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: Noctis and Prompto spend their hours together, learning from each other and learning each other, in many intimate and sexy/messy ways.





	1. day 01 -- kink discovery (semi-public sex + held down)

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on through from the previous story in this series, "it can be sweet though incomplete though", so read that one first.
> 
> As with the earlier fic, I created this AU for the express purpose of participating in NSFW Promptis Week (30 Aug - 6 Sept). I've filled a prompt from each day with the exception of Day 04.
> 
> Playlist and other notes appear in the previous story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Noct~

“Hello.” 

Familiar rasp that hooks right into Noctis’s nerves, that pulls a straight searing short-circuit line of heat taut from the base of his skull down to his groin, and -- gods, he’ll never get over the dark pulse that he’s hearing right now in Prompto’s voice. He’ll never stop being surprised by it, by him -- he’ll never get tired of it, he thinks, he hopes.

“Gotta stop meeting like this,” he says, and he lets Prompto push him back into the chair. Wall of window-glass throwing neon-stained colored shadows onto Prompto’s freckles, into Prompto’s eyes, illuminating his expression that’s gone heavy-lidded and predatory. “People are going to start thinking I’m trying to corrupt you.”

“Oh, that, what they don’t know can’t hurt them,” and he hisses in a breath when Prompto cages him in with a knee between his fallen-open legs, just shy of making contact with his groin. “Why do you care that they care?”

“I don’t,” and he catches his breath because Prompto seems determined to tease him, to leave him hanging and drawn on the small teasing distance left between the two of them. Thumbs pressing circles over his collar bones, too slow a touch, too shallow -- he groans, quietly, pleading. “Prom, please.”

“I could get used to you begging.”

Noctis nearly laughs, then, because there’s nothing first or second or even third about this, about him being held in place with nothing more than a ghost of a touch and that gorgeous voice, that damned sharp melody of Prompto taking charge. 

He does snort -- and he blinks when Prompto gets right in his face and smiles. 

Checks in. “Are you good? I can let up if you like.”

“Don’t you dare,” Noctis says, and as if to prove the point he slouches a little further down in the chair, enough for him to press his groin against Prompto’s knee.

“Ohh, already, really?”

“What you do to me -- _don’t stop_ ,” he says, again, and he gets a quiet chuckle for his troubles, and Prompto’s hand cupping him, teasingly, quick stroke up and down his cock where it’s hard and trapped against his button-flies, where it’s starting to hurt a little, too confined.

“Not good enough,” and those dark edges are back in that lovely voice, and Noctis swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat, tries to take a breath -- and then Prompto’s sweeping in to claim a fierce biting kiss that leaves his heartbeat lurching, speeding, needing -- 

Heat of Prompto’s mouth, moving tortuously slow over his throat, and he shivers, he’s torn, he wants to press further into that touch and he wants that touch everywhere else, and he can’t even move -- so he begs, instead. “Prompto.”

“Sssh, someone might hear us,” but the words are tossed off so casually, so nonchalantly, like he doesn’t actually care at all.

It’s a possibility: they never turned the lights on, after all, and this is still a shared workspace and anyone could come in, anyone who might want to use this particular room for an hour or two, and Noctis is racked relentlessly on that lovely dirty idea: on the idea of being discovered here. Here where he’s pinned beneath Prompto’s eyes and hands and Prompto’s gods-damned voice.

Oh, there’s no shame in him at all: he almost wants to be discovered, and he shifts in the chair to feel the wet spot he’s creating in his briefs -- to let Prompto feel the wet spot and the slow outward creep of its edges. Expanding. 

“Okay, now you’re just having too much fun,” and the laugh that follows the words, hot puffs over his skin, pulls him helplessly deeper into this mood they’re fanning between them, like fires -- he almost knows to expect the sizzling hard shock of Prompto biting at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, sharp edges and the thrill of the blood surging everywhere in his veins and rushing to his cock -- what he’s not expecting is the hand snagging at the back of his head, seizing at his hair, yanking him backwards -- he’s imprisoned, he’s an arc of nerves, of need, and the terminal points are Prompto’s fingers and Prompto’s knee --

“Fuck, Noct, you look good like this -- ”

“Want to be good for you,” he mutters, laboring for breath between the words because he’s pulled so tight and tense. Sensation flaring in the back of his brain where he can’t even think any more. Sensation racing and sawing down his straining nerves.

“You are, you are, come on, come on,” and now there are fingers snagging on his fly and it’s relief and it isn’t, and he grinds against that teasing pressure, not quite enough to get him really rocketing off and yet still undeniably there, still so present that he bucks into it -- and he does almost shout, finally lost for words, when Prompto reaches into his briefs and frees him, starts stroking him off, rough and good and winding him more and more tightly and -- 

“Wait for it, Noct, wait for it, come when I say, try for me, try, come on,” relentless pace and he’s pulled along blind on that purely sexual lilt, that rhythm of Prompto’s voice and those commanding words -- 

“Please,” he grits, teetering on the edge -- he wants to be good, he wants to be so good -- he doesn’t know how long he can be good -- 

Warmth, coming closer: he wrenches his eyes open with an effort and here is Prompto, so close, smiling and kissing him and then -- at last, at last, whisper against his lips, Noctis trying to catch that breath and -- 

“Now, Noctis, now -- give it to me. 

“Come for me.”

The hand in his hair yanks once more and it’s pleasure, it’s pain, razing him down into mindless grateful gasps and he’s coming, he’s falling, he’s gone -- 

Slowly he comes back to himself and he’s glad of the chair, and there’s a weight on his knees that makes it creak out a quiet warning.

Weight that resolves into a red-faced Prompto, sitting in his lap.

Noctis blinks, clocks the bright hectic light in those gorgeous eyes, asks: “Don’t you -- ?”

“Let’s sneak out of here first -- you’re kind of a mess -- ”

“Your mess, right?”

Sharp edge of tooth in that answering smile. “Lemme think about it.”

He spares a laugh and a wince and he gets slowly to his feet. Wobbles a little, leans on Prompto a little -- but he does call them a ride and he promises himself some revenge, just as soon as he gets Prompto home --


	2. day 02 -- “You’re doing so good for me.”

When he’s fully seated, when he’s all the way in, he tosses his head just enough to get his hair out of his eyes, and his own movements catch his eye in the mirror posted right next to the bed, and he can’t help himself: he stares at the reflected images, the reflected scene.

Prompto, who’d started on his hands and knees, and now? He’s gorgeous, straining, forced down to his elbows and then his shoulders. His cheek against the cushioning swell of one of the pillows, and the ecstatic grimace twisting his mouth. Now his hands are bound above his head, white washcloth firmly knotted around his wrists.

“Like what you see?” Noctis asks, and he presses his hand more firmly against the back of Prompto’s neck, holding him down.

And he pulls out, slow and steady, just until the head of his cock remains in Prompto, and he only has to look down to see -- lubricant smeared all over the lush curves of Prompto’s ass, the lovely pink of his wet stretched rim, the flex of the muscles in his lower back -- Noctis can feel the way he’s struggling to push backwards, except that he’s bound and he can’t get any leverage -- 

“Please,” and Prompto’s moan is high and needy and wrecked.

“All right,” and he allows himself a small smile and a deep breath -- and he drives all the way back in, all the way home, with one single deep thrust -- and his reward is the shout that he wrings from Prompto’s throat, an agonized sweet note that breaks into echoes against the corners of this cramped hotel room, its close confines filling with the shuddering delirium in Prompto’s voice.

“Okay?” he asks, once Prompto’s finished gasping for breath. “Too much?”

“Not gonna break,” and there’s a smile to go with the words, with the lust-haze in his eyes.

Noctis laughs, a little strained because he’s fighting the urgent need to fuck him hard and fast and deep, and he leans down to press a kiss into sweaty blond hair. “Good, and you’re good. Doing so good for me.”

Prompto’s smile widens a little, and he blinks slow and satisfied. “Please Noct?”

“Yeah, I got you.”

Slow, at first: he rocks his hips in tight circles, hands framing Prompto’s ass and encouraging him to move, directing him, rhythm of their lovemaking rising and rising, sharp and sweet and slashing.

“Down,” he says, after a few more thrusts: this time he puts his hand back between those freckle-stippled shoulders, and he can feel the tension and the flex in his arm, in his shoulder, as he brings his entire body weight to bear -- down. Down, to keep Prompto trapped. Down, to keep him right where he is, with nothing left to do but to take Noctis. To take whatever Noctis wants to give him.

The other hand he cups around Prompto’s throat, deliberately slack grip, just enough for him to feel Noctis’s curved fingers. “All right?”

“Yeah, ’s good,” he hears Prompto say. “Feels like, like you’re really holding me -- ”

“Yeah?” 

Bent over Prompto like this, he can push even deeper into him and Noctis angles for his sweet spot with each thrust, and he listens for the quiet gasps for breath, the little yearning sounds he can feel catching in Prompto’s throat.

“Please, please,” Prompto is soon muttering, over and over again -- and then suddenly he _wails_ , struggles, like he’s trying to get away and trying to get closer at the same time, and Noctis knows he’s on target now and he goes slow, again, fights for the same angle and the same depth every time, merciless as he tries to hit that bundle of nerves on each stroke -- 

Prompto’s voice quickly falls apart into desperate gasps, and maybe he’s cursing, maybe he’s saying “Yes” over and over again, or maybe that’s Noctis’s name falling from his lips -- hard to tell when the roar in Noctis’s ears is growing louder and louder -- the roar where he’s fast approaching his own limits, and he’s determined to tip Prompto over the edge first -- 

He reaches for the material binding Prompto’s wrists together and grits out the question. “Want this off?”

“No, no, don’t, don’t, I want it Noctis _please I want you_ \-- ”

Babbling, now, encouraging him, driving him on -- and he lets the words fly, too: “You’re so beautiful like this, you’re taking me so well, can you feel how deep I am in you? Give it to me, Prompto, give it to me, let me see you, let me hear you, are you close? Tell me, Prompto, tell me -- ”

“Oh gods fuck me, fuck me, I want you, so deep I can taste you, oh gods Noctis I’m so close I -- !”

The words shatter, the mirror shows Prompto’s mouth fallen open and soundless, the sweet yield of his body turns into a deliciously crushing pulse and Noctis feels those massive tremors running through him, and he laughs as he thrusts into him once, twice, three more times and then he’s coming, too, intense sweet relief like thunder and lightning screaming down his pleasure-wrecked nerves.

He skims the edges of blackout -- only manages to keep it together long enough to undo the knots in the cloth tying Prompto’s wrists together, to push both Prompto and himself out of the wet spot on the bed, and then he can feel the quiet shaking in his arms and he whispers into Prompto’s hair, drunkenly: “It’s all right, it’s all right, you were magnificent, you were so so good, did you feel good -- ”

“Noctis. Yes,” he hears him say, and he kisses Prompto’s soft slack mouth and keeps on holding him close.


	3. day 03 -- Prompto sends sexy photos to Noctis

“This isn’t working, is it,” he says, after the third consecutive botched take.

Glum faces on the other side of the glass: Lunafreya, pinched mouth; Iris, worried creases in her forehead; Ignis, critical gaze pinned to the control panels.

“No it’s not. Okay. Shit, I’m surprised we all lasted this long,” and the sound engineer clears her throat and pulls the ribbons out of her half-dozen braids. He can hear the scrape of her fingernails over her own scalp. “Maybe let’s take a long lunch break and try again after? Noctis, hour and a half?”

He sighs and shakes his head and shrugs. “Yeah. Okay, Highwind, let’s do it your way.”

“Noctis,” he hears Lunafreya say, next.

“I don’t know,” he says, before she can ask a question. “We can try.”

“What’s different about this track?” That voice belongs to Ignis. “What’s so difficult about it?”

He glances at the tablet on its stand below the microphone and -- there’s nothing complicated in the chords.

He mutters the words to himself, and he can’t resist noodling with the melody as he goes:

_All my life I’ve dreamed of empty beds_  
_Rooms full of lonely echoes and the moaning wind._  
_All my life I’ve walked down broken roads_  
_And nothing but my single footsteps to find, to follow_  
_Round and round in circles, heading nowhere fast._

“It’s still a work in progress,” he says, after a moment. “I -- don’t feel right with the next words.”

“That’s assuming you had any,” but Ignis’s words are kind and well-meant and true, and he can only shrug back.

“I hate getting stalled out like this.”

“Take however long you want, Noctis. Break time, shoo,” he hears Iris say, and he sighs, and he sort of itches for a joint and sort of itches for a drink, and he doesn’t allow himself to do any of those things when he’s recording so he has to settle for -- locking himself in the back seat of his car. For kicking his boots off -- thud, thud, making the car shake for just a moment.

Socked feet up on the windowsill, climate control chiming on, weight of his own jacket draped over his chest for a blanket, and he’s thinking absently about -- the constellation of freckles shaped like a spiral galaxy, just a little off-center in the small of Prompto’s back -- when his phone jumps in the long, sustained way that means he’s been sent something to -- see, or to watch, or to listen to.

Media delivery.

So he pulls his phone out of his pocket and cracks his eyes open, and -- he sits up so suddenly he nearly bangs his head on the low-hanging ceiling of the car -- 

The photo that opens beneath his thumb shows him exactly what he was just thinking about.

The small of Prompto’s back: dimples, freckles, the curve of his spine, the very top of the lush swell of his ass. 

Questions crowding on the tip of his tongue and he sends, instead, _How did you know?_

_Know what?_

_That I was thinking about you. About the taste of your skin._ No one over his shoulder and no one asking for his time. Noctis thinks, fingers paused over his virtual keyboard, and before he can begin the next thought, his phone buzzes again.

This time the bar-code tattoo marks the bottom edge of the shot. 

Above it, vivid blue-green of the veins in Prompto’s wrist, running past the braceleting lines at the base of his hand, into the swell of the mound below his thumb.

Noctis shivers, remembering the last time he’d felt that thumb up close and extremely, intimately personal. The weight of it on his tongue, pad pressing down gently but firmly. The glisten of his own saliva on that digit as it skated down the entire length of his naked body, and came to a rest over the slit of his cockhead. Droplets of precum caught on those fingerprint-lines, that Prompto brought up to his own mouth and smeared on. Rubbing teasing motions over the Cupid’s-bow of his upper lip, and all the while Prompto had been watching him.

Sneaking out of Loqi Tummelt’s party to -- not quite climb in through Prompto’s window -- had been the best decision he’d made that night, only three nights ago. 

He rubs his wrist absently, and thinks of the weight of leather wrapped around his forearms, and has to loosen the buttons at his collar, dizzy with the memories.

_Still there?_

He almost groans and almost laughs out loud, and the car is too confining, now, too warm, and he’s breathing far too heavily. _Maybe. Maybe you’ve killed me._

_But what a way to go, right?_

And again, before he can respond to that, there’s one more long buzz.

Something twinges in his gut, like a warning, like the pinch of lust: makes him glance out of the windows in the car, to make sure he’s alone, to make sure there’s no one else to see what he’s about to see.

Which is: Prompto, mirror-image of him, buck-naked from his shoulders to the tops of his thighs. Merciless gleam of overhead fluorescent light. He’s holding his phone up in front of his face so there’s no way of looking at his expression, of seeing his eyes. 

But Noctis knows more than just the patterns of freckles dappling his torso. He knows the stretch marks gathered around the edges of Prompto’s stomach, over the upper reaches of his hips. He knows the faintest edges of the bruises mottling around Prompto’s navel: knows them like the sudden warmth pooling in his mouth, the feel of that lovely soft skin against the edges of his teeth, the salt of sweat heavy on his tongue.

Just enough of Prompto to make out the flush spreading over his chest. The topmost ragged edges of dark-blond hair in its fine curls, between his legs. 

_Noctis._

_Noctis isn’t here,_ he sends back, blinking away the haze of need on the edges of his vision. The roar and rush of blood in his veins. _He’s kind of not thinking right now._

He can almost feel Prompto beneath him, impudent, mouthy, laughing even as he was further impaled on Noctis’s cock. He can almost hear the stuttering rhythm of Prompto’s breaths, fighting off the edge of orgasm. He can almost see the white-patched press of Prompto’s fingers into him, spurring him on, jolts of pleasure-pain racking them in their joining.

Noctis takes a deep breath and presses his palm over his cock, and he still has to growl a little, still has to wait a little longer, just to calm down. 

And the thought strikes him, suddenly, just as he’s getting ready to call Prompto -- maybe the problem with the song is that it’s not his to sing. Maybe the problem is, he’s not the right person to bring his own words to life. 

Maybe the problem is, he’s wound up writing a song for someone else.


	4. day 05 -- Being pinned/fucked against the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of skipped Day 4 of this week, which explains why chapter 4 in this fic deals with a Day 5 prompt.

Okay, so maybe he’s never going to get over the whole -- people looking at him thing. He’s never going to get over the idea that maybe they’re looking at him because any moment now they’re going to start laughing at him. At the wrinkles in his face, the lines bracketing his mouth. His almost shoulder-length hair. Iris has only recently stopped scolding him about it, and maybe the fact that Prompto had managed the feat of braiding sections of it has something to do with that. 

But this, this whole silence that rings in his ears in the last moment between the music and the silence and the sudden cheering, the raucous roar of emotion -- that’s something he never wants to get over. That’s something he never wants to get tired of. That’s the sizzle and the hiss and the ecstasy and he never wants to let go of the wonder of it. He never wants this dumbstruck happiness to end.

And he feels like his heart must burst because he only has to look over his shoulder and Prompto is right there, right next to the makeshift stage that he’d thought wasn’t even going to hold the weight of the piano -- poor haphazardly-tuned monstrosity that it was, that the organizers of this particular concert must have scrounged up from gods-knew-where -- Noctis had winced at the first chord and then he’d just barreled straight into the music, into “Throne of Regrets” and there were voices rising to sing with him and -- the voices had included Prompto’s, the clean high of hearing it live and completely unfiltered from him --

He’s dizzy, he’s laughing himself breathless, he’s crouching and jumping off the stage and straight into Prompto’s arms -- and he leans in and hopes the words will be heard over the delirious cries for “More, more, more” -- he says, “Take me home?”

“Yeah!”

Not even the pleading bright-eyed grin from the organizer of this particular concert can stop him -- he just laughs and says, “I’m not even on the bill!” And that’s it, that’s all there is to it, and he lets Prompto half-march and half-run him out of the building, straight into the wind that cuts cold into his cheeks, straight into the ozone-scent of a storm on the thundering move, and he’s turning and grabbing Prompto by the cheeks, pulling him close enough for their foreheads to touch and he’s closing his eyes, and saying, “Why was that so different? Why was that -- better and a hundred times worse all together?”

“Impromptu,” he thinks he hears Prompto say, over the ringing in his ears. “And -- that was the worst piano in the world wasn’t it?”

“It was like playing those devil laughing birds, what do you call them, they’ve got that weird name!”

“Kookaburras?”

“Yeah, those,” and Noctis takes a deep breath and it’s a cold cold breath and it feels like ice must be spearing through his lungs, and he huddles closer towards Prompto, or is it that Prompto’s huddling in closer too? “How bad was it?”

“It was _awful_ , Noctis, don’t ever do that again,” he hears Prompto say, and Noctis laughs, helplessly, and he drags the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and then there’s a cab whirling up to them and he shoves the driver an extra bill or two.

“I don’t get it,” and that’s Prompto, curled halfway into his lap where they’re still a miserable clinging tangle, city streets streaming past and the first battering drops of the rain, echoing. “I don’t get it, they shouldn’t have just pulled you out of the audience and asked you to sing -- that’s like saying you shouldn’t be going to concerts because then they’ll probably feel like they can make you get on stage -- ”

“Okay, maybe, and you raise a good point,” he says, “but also, in this case, you noticed I went to talk to the drummer first?”

Blink. Blink. Prompto’s eyes widen in the back-flash of lightning, that Noctis can see past his hair, through the rain-pelleted window. “Yeah, I did. Actually, you looked like you were gonna hit them.”

“I will, probably, at some point. Not today though. That guy, that was Luche -- I grew up with him, I guess? Or he used to run around with us, meaning me and the guys, and then he left to do his own thing and I promised him one song. One thing. And last week he let me know he was going to do this thing tonight. He let me know he was going to call in that favor. So -- yeah. On principle it’s fun to smack him around. He’s hilarious when he gets pissy. But -- that was the one and only time I was gonna do it. Now he’ll never be able to do it again and he knows it -- and now you know it.”

“What the fuck,” and Prompto’s laughing and Noctis gathers him to his heart and laughs along with him, warming him in their not-enough layers, until they’re spilling out onto the sidewalk and he’s looking up at the building that’s got his loft, rain hitting him almost hard enough to bruise and -- 

The grip on his wrist turns hard and punishing and tight and he gasps a little, turns toward Prompto, and -- clocks the avid fierce light in those lovely eyes and he’d stagger, he’d fall for real, if not for that same grip. “What -- ?”

“You finally did it,” Prompto’s saying, over the rush of the storm. “You sang my favorite song. After all this time you did it, and -- ” 

Tug, electrifying, and Noctis stares at him all throughout -- lobby, elevator, the short stretch of corridor into his place and -- they’re stopped right in the open front door and he’s caught and pinned on Prompto, on his hungry smile. “But the other song I did was -- ”

“Yeah, it was, and -- you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to sing it -- ”

He wants to stare, and he wants to laugh. “What the everloving fuck happened to _just asking_?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He doesn’t get to answer because Prompto’s herding him through the door, is kicking the door shut behind him -- because Prompto’s walking him past the table and right into the angle of the wall. Hands curled into fists in his shirt, that had been fairly clean before they got into the concert, and now it’s a glitter-drenched mess. Heat radiating from Prompto’s eyes, his wild grin, fairly vibrating in his hair. 

“Let me?” And there’s such a contrast between that heat and those soft and gentle words. “Noctis. You know you can stop me at any time.”

“I don’t even know what you’re planning to do, and for the record, don’t you dare stop -- ”

The answer that he gets is not in words -- or at least, not in Prompto’s words, because the next thing he knows Prompto’s biting at his throat, savage suction of his mouth and his teeth in Noctis’s skin, and kiss after wild kiss that surges exactly like the storm outside the windows -- 

“Holy fuck, Prompto,” he hisses, and he can’t even properly tip his head back, can’t even properly offer the rest of himself to that sweet ferocity, and all he can do is push back against that grip. All he can do is shiver and go out of his mind and plead: “Let me up I want to touch -- ”

“Hell no.” Flat of Prompto’s tongue lashing against his collar bones, and the heat of him goes straight to Noctis’s cock, like the perfect strike of a perfect chord. “No, you’re gonna be good and you’re gonna take it.”

“Prompto!”

Not to stop him, dear gods -- Noctis pushes back, hard, against Prompto’s hips, and then Prompto’s pulling his hands down and Noctis actually feels his knees buckle a little, and he’s pathetically grateful for the walls at his back, the cold stone warming in the close breaths and the close spaces of the two of them. 

Clank, clank, Noctis’s own belt hitting the floor, just missing his shoes. Prompto’s hands warming against his belly, skimming his seams, straining against his shirt buttons to thumb at his nipples and Noctis hisses, at first to protest and then -- inexorably -- to melt into the insistent touch that leaves him hypersensitive and moaning. The renewed rush of the blood in his ears, the building heat like prickles and thorns low in his belly, curling around his balls. 

“I know you like that,” Prompto’s muttering, making him start, because that mouth’s moving down, down, kissing trails of fire past his navel, into the crease of his thigh. The jutting curve of his hipbone. 

He settles for running his rain-damp hands through Prompto’s hair, settles for -- not pulling, because Prompto’s yanking his briefs down and he’s tracing hot wet lines over Noctis’s cock, teasingly light touches, firm grip at the base.

And lower, lower still -- Noctis hisses, grateful and greedy for every touch, for the finger tracing wet teasing circles over his rim. 

Prompto tortures him like this for a long time, till he feels the sweat running in rivulets down the back of his neck, till he feels the shiver in his knees, in his ankles, threatening a fall -- that mouth working his cock so well, those fingers driving into him so strongly -- and the storm rages on outside, and he shouts until he’s got no more words and no more breath left in him, until he’s a silent mess of need, until all he can see is Prompto’s eyes gone dark and bottomless and beautiful --


	5. day 06 -- “Do you ever imagine me just holding you down and fucking you into the mattress?”

It’s a good question, he thinks, and he hides his grin in his fist and counts, just under his breath, and then -- “You know what, fuck you, Noctis, fuck you very much. You think you’re funny, you’re not subtle at all,” and even with the shitty webcam he can see the telltale flush rising in Prompto’s cheeks.

He knows from very, very close-hand experience just how far that deep red goes, just how hot it runs, and he almost wishes he could trace it out in freckles and stretch marks right now, but that’s the bad thing about being who he is: he’s miles and weeks away from Prompto, running a whirlwind tour around the world to promote a charity collaboration single. The endless round of endless inane all-the-same questions, just in different languages. The exhaustion of living out of a couple of suitcases, a limited wardrobe of press-conference items, and the faint persistent smell of dry-cleaning, because gods forbid he get out in front of a camera, in front of the world’s press, wearing comfortable t-shirts and jogging pants. 

And he’s a fan of suits, too; he’s just not seeing the point of wearing them all the fucking time.

Although he’s in bed, right now, because he’s supposed to be suffering through a midnight phone-in interview and the whole thing’s been called off at the last minute, and he’s grateful that the only thing he’s watching on his phone is -- Prompto, in his own bed this time, in his own little apartment of poster-plastered walls and the chocobo-feather patterns on his blankets, on his pillowcases.

One of the mini-posters next to Prompto’s overcrowded desk shows an image of a fox-like creature. Pale-blue fur, beady-bright black eyes, red horn on its forehead. Its ears are easily longer than the length of its actual body. It’s a rough sketch in color pencils and it had been the cover of Noctis’s second EP.

“I’m bored,” he says, when Prompto looks up at him again and glares, literally glares.

“So you, what, you’re going to ask _me_ dumb questions?”

“I’m stuck answering dumb questions all day every day right now, and no one even wants to talk to Monica at this point unless I’m shoving their microphones in her direction, so.” And he can’t help the frustration that rears its ugly head again, can’t help it when it feels like it’s tearing the smile off of his own face, and he pulls a little on his own hair, and tries to shrug at the grainy image of Prompto, halfway across the world and moving out of sight of the camera. “Okay, sorry, I get it, I’ll -- back off. I shouldn’t be taking this shit out on you.”

There’s no response, and he mutters another round of apologies and he’s preparing to end the video-chat, when -- 

“Noctis. Hey. Don’t go?”

And he nearly falls over into his impersonal hotel pillows, still creased and crisp because he’s only been in this room for a couple of hours at the most, and -- that was a moan. Small and distant and a little distorted and it’s still Prompto’s voice, moaning his name.

“Prompto?”

“Why’d you have to go and put the damned idea in my head.” Slightly slurred muttering, and no edge of anger or peevishness in the words.

Just a sparking sharp longing that catches in Noctis’s chest and below it, like hooks. 

“I mean, you’re not here,” Prompto is saying, still off-screen, “and I have to wait for how long before you get back home this time?”

“Only two more weeks,” he says, and he tilts his head and strains his ears and -- he’s almost convinced himself that maybe Prompto’s just teasing him, just trying to exact a kind of revenge on him because he’s been whining about being alone all throughout the trip and -- 

Soft wet sounds, just on the good side of barely audible, and that might actually be -- 

The scene on his phone shifts. Shows him -- a crooked close-up of the side of Prompto’s face. Eye screwed shut, blush spreading to his ear, mouth hanging just a little bit open.

Is he lying down? What are his hands _doing_?

“What are you doing,” Noctis asks, carefully, because he doesn’t want to wreck the mood now.

And maybe he’s reaching for himself beneath the covers, too: maybe he’s pulling down his own underwear, maybe he’s giving himself a good hard stroke. Maybe he’s imagining Prompto’s hands on him, marking him up all over again, branding him with heat and need.

“Why aren’t you here,” and that really is a moan, and the shoulder that he can see is shifting on the sheets, and the look on Prompto’s face is -- distant, needy, beautiful. “It’s so weird, Noctis. I mean. I’m spoiled, you know, you let me have my way with you all the time -- ”

“Same,” he mutters, “I don’t know why you let me do all kinds of stuff to you,” and he keeps stroking himself, slow, so slow, like he’s trying to draw it out, like he’s trying to keep himself on the edge.

“Why? Because, because you know you drive me crazy, ah, shit, Noctis, this is so weird this isn’t you -- ”

“What isn’t.” 

Movement just off the edge of the view of Prompto, as he seems to twist slow and wanting on the bed and then -- thump of landing, slick distorted reflections -- 

Shape in steel, half-gleaming. Ring in one end, large enough to fit two fingers through. Curved short shaft ending in a medium-sized bulb-end, with a smooth tapered almost-point. As Noctis watches, a drop of lube slides off the smooth surface, to be absorbed into the bed.

He’s seen that shape somewhere -- he’s maybe used it before? “That’s -- Prompto, is that the thing I got you?”

The steel shape disappears from view and -- he knows exactly where it’s going and that makes his breath catch in his throat again.

“Yeah. Did I tell you I love it? I remember using it on you though. Damn good one too.” Grin, on the half of Prompto’s face that he can still see. “Little out of practice using it. Or the, the, this thing,” and the words trail off into a gasp and -- a low urgent buzz that Noctis can now hear, rising thrum.

And all this time he hasn’t actually seen Prompto’s hands on screen.

“Oh, fuck,” Noctis mutters, and he gives up on going slow: he starts jerking himself hard and fast, now that he’s cottoned on. 

Thrum, vibration, and he imagines that pressed to the shape of the steel that Prompto must have pushed into himself and -- he desperately wishes he could travel instantaneously, somehow, from his lonely bed to Prompto’s -- 

“Say that again,” he hears Prompto say.

“Oh, _fuck_ \-- Prompto. I love that you’re doing these things but -- gods, what I’d give right now to fuck you -- ”

“Yeah, rather have you, honest -- much as I love these things you better fuck me good when you get home, you better _wreck_ me, promise me, Noctis, promise me,” and Prompto’s words tail off into a low throaty growl, and he can just barely see the gritted teeth and the sweat beading up in his hairline, and Noctis’s vision is soon blurring out --

“I promise, I promise -- ”

(Prompto’s right: it’s not the same, it’s a different kind of high, doing for himself. The difference of absence: the absence of Prompto watching him, or touching him, or simply being there with him, in the same spaces, in the same breaths.)


	6. day 07 -- “I know this is totally not the right time, but you look so hot right now.”

Reflection in the mirror, making faces back at him, and after a moment Noctis manages to un-purse his lips and pick up his phone, and he shakes his head and swipes back into the group chat. 

_@Ignis do NOT say I told you so_  
_I don’t have to, you’re doing a good job of it all on your own. Kudos._  
_Roasted! Stick a fork in him, turn him over, he’s done!_  
_Thank you Crowe._  
_They keep panning back to you after the performances, you okay?_

He rolls his eyes a little.

_@Lunafreya kind of too late to be asking that question. besides I like them all. not really allowed to play favorites am I_  
_yes but the pretty boys from Galahd bought you those sweets you like so much_

He can almost hear the hooting and the taunts in the group chat, hard on the heels of those words. 

_stop ratting me out are you TRYING to get me in trouble?_

And he promises himself revenge on all of them, once all of this hoopla is over, once he can get past this presenter gig and he can get the hell out of here.

But not before he tries to smile at the cameras, not before he gets out on stage and opens that envelope and announces the winner for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance.

Not before he allows the cameras to get a good look at his wing-shaped cufflinks -- not before he lets Aulea know he’s carrying a little bit of her to this over-the-top fancy-dress party.

So he rolls his eyes and unbuttons his waistcoat and -- okay that’s not a good look. He does the buttons up again. Changes the knot in his tie from a Windsor to a four-in-hand.

“Are you trying to murder that thing? Because maybe you’re kind of going the wrong way about it. You should take it off first.”

“And then what? I can’t strangle it back,” he says, and relief runs through him as he turns away from the lit-up mirrors and looks at the person in the doorway.

Tiny green room as this is, Prompto -- fills it up with his grin, with the glitter dusted on his cheeks, with the electric-blue streaks in his hair, with the faint pink of lip gloss on his lovely mouth. The tease of his pretend-demure shirt where it covers up his collar bones in front and -- is nothing but wide mesh on the other side, exposing his freckles and the healed ink of the tattoo in the small of his back. 

So Noctis sings the words corresponding to the staff and the notes in Prompto’s skin, smiling: 

_One other year, a hundred flags flying in a field; one day, felt it let go of me_

He’s due for his own tattoo appointment: and he plans to wear a different line from the same song, plans to wear neat blue characters around his left forearm.

_Oh, grant that I can stay the night, or one more day inside this life_

Which are the words that Prompto murmurs back at him as they finally meet in the center of the room and -- he can never resist Prompto’s warmth, the vital presence of him in the world, the complications and the rhythm and the clashing ideas of him -- and he kisses him as soundly as he can. Kisses him to make him moan.

Or maybe that’s Noctis’s hands, curved over his ass, that’re making him hang on. Curved against butter-soft leather in vibrant red, to contrast with the black and the silver that he’s already wearing. Leather that clings mercilessly to every last inch of Prompto’s legs and -- time, time, there’s never enough time, is there? Any moment now, Noctis will have to go out on stage, and he’s not doing it with an obvious erection --

But the alternative is to let go of Prompto and that’s just not something he’s interested in doing.

And Prompto is half breathless against him, is laughing and muttering and winding his leg around Noctis’s hip. 

Noctis can feel Prompto’s fists framing his backbone, clenched weight of holding helplessly on. 

“Keep going.” The heated mutter of him, and the outward push of plush flesh and muscle into the palms of his hands. 

And he all but hoists Prompto off the floor and -- he’s so so so tempted to lick at the line of his throat. He wants to lose himself in the scent of Prompto, in the throaty little moans he’s desperately trying to suppress. 

He wants to get down on his knees and -- put his mouth on that hard heat trapped between them, the heat of Prompto, shivering in the here and now as Noctis shamelessly gropes him.

He wants to hear so much more of those lovely sounds, the music of him where he’s pinned on the need that ratchets higher and higher between them -- 

Knock on the door: and the girl in the tuxedo jacket grins and covers up that grin in a hand that’s dripping gunmetal-gray jewelry, chains and rings on her fingers and a wide cuff clasped around her wrist. “Mr Caelum? They just went to commercial break and you’re up next.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he can’t remember her name and that’s pretty rude -- but the blood is still a scorching-hot rush in his veins and he can’t help himself.

He kisses his way up to Prompto’s ear. Licks at the earrings, the curve of the delicately veined shell, and then he whispers and he doesn’t hide the want that’s a dark haze on the edges of his vision. “I get to take you home, right? You’re _my_ prize. You’re prettier than any damn trophy, because you’re not a trophy. Anyway I can’t fuck or be fucked by any of those things they’re handing out tonight, so I have no use for them.”

“G-gods, Noctis, we’re in fucking public,” and he can take a little pride in the fact that he’s the reason for the uncontrollable shiver in those words. The quaking weight of Prompto, still willingly molded full-length against him, like they’re bound together, wound around and around in need, like sweet cords catching at breath and words and thoughts.

“Yes? So? I’m telling you, you’re the hottest thing in this ballroom. Like, by miles. By fucking light years.”

“Y-you don’t have to tell me, every time you look at me it feels like -- I have to look down and check I’m still actually wearing things.”

“Oh?” He tries to sound casual. 

Knows he fails because there’s too much rasp in that one sound.

As there’s too much rasp in the promise he adds, vehement mutter against Prompto’s throat: “Once we’re done here, I’m running out with you and I don’t care who sees, I don’t care who figures it out. I’m running out with you and I’m gonna spend the night wrecking you. Or you can wreck me because you know I’m good for it, you know I’m good for you. You want?”

“No -- but only because you’re not doing it right the fuck now.”

He laughs, scrapes his teeth one more time against that freckled skin and the sweat beading along the collar-line, and rushes for the stage.


	7. day 08 -- free day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the idea I built this entire AU around. No, seriously, this was the scene that came to me first and then I wrote everything else in these two fics to go with.
> 
>  
> 
> _Free day -- Prom making music naked / Noct blows him and he’s not allowed to stop the piece_

As soon as he pushes in through the door of his loft he lets go of his luggage and his coat and his phone all in a heap, all in and near and around the table that he’s placed next to the door for that very purpose, and his keys clatter in the little seashell-shaped dish and his tickets flutter out of his pockets and -- he’s so tired, so tired, he’s not really good with sleeping on airplanes any more, or maybe it’s just that this particular flight had been thirteen excruciating hours long.

He wants a drink, he wants a massage, he wants to knock himself out and sleep for maybe a year -- 

It’s the middle of the night, and the world outside the windows of his loft is nothing but neon and searchlights and nobody wanting to go to bed, and he can’t hear the street-level noise, which is just what he wants.

But that means quiet, up here, and he holds his breath a little, listening keenly.

There. He catches that soft padding sound again. Soft sustained enough to be -- 

He kicks off his shoes. Now he’s silent and careful, moving as quietly as he can, and he hasn’t been here in a week or so and he maybe has to watch where he’s going, maybe the chairs have been moved around -- he toes his way around his favorite couch, gives the stack of magazines on the floor next to it a wide berth. 

Up the steps, sneaky, wondering what kind of mood Prompto’s going to be in this time. Has he fallen asleep? Is he eating in the bed? Is he dozing in the bathtub?

And just as he turns the corner into the entire sprawl of the bedroom, he catches the movement of -- a bow, a violin, a tilted shoulder --

Notes plucked out on the taut strings, and then a breath that Noctis hears so clearly, so vividly, so focused is he on the performer -- stirring brave beat of the initial phrase that falls whole and beautiful into the actual melody, full-blown, like a thousand voices on one single violin and the person who’s playing it. 

He’s so caught on the music, so drawn into it -- only the first few measures are familiar and then nothing else is -- that he doesn’t notice how he’s entirely naked, until he rounds the corner of the bed and now he can see the long lines of Prompto in nothing but his skin and the music he’s creating. The straight set of his back, the wing-line of his arms and his wrists and his hands on the move, the riotous waves of his hair like he’s freshly awoken or like he’s never gone to sleep.

Prompto opens his eyes, then, and the music falters, and falls into a crashing silence.

“Sorry.” Noctis doesn’t know why he’s whispering. “I interrupted you. Please go on.”

“You’re home,” he hears Prompto say. And: “Are you all right?”

“I wasn’t, when I came through the door.” He tries on a smile and he’s a little surprised that it fits, though it’s lopsided, though it falls away quickly. “But better now. Thanks to you.”

Smile, and the movement of Prompto as he seems to get ready to put his bow and his instrument away.

Not what he wants, so he crosses the short distance between them and he wraps his hands carefully, gently, around Prompto’s wrists. “Like I said. You can go on if you want.”

Those eyes turned up to him, as though to worry for him, to see through him. “What do I want?”

“You tell me.” He’s still holding on to Prompto, even as he obeys the instinct that’s risen up in him, that drives him down to his knees. Down, onto the pooled pile of one of the quilts that’s fallen off the bed -- at least he doesn’t have to kneel right on the floor, and at least he can shift and be a little comfortable on the plush dense material. 

He maybe enjoys the play of light and emotion in Prompto’s face too much -- the play of him from looking up to looking down.

There’s something going quiet in the back of Noctis’s head, something that had been clamoring and now is smoothed over, shrouded in quilt-like shelter, and he settles back on his heels a little, pulls his hands away. Cold creeping in onto his palms, but he flattens those against his knees and looks up and smiles a little, tries to coax Prompto a little. “Please? Will you keep playing?”

“Sure,” and he sounds soft and certain and good and Noctis sighs and leans in a little. Smell of soap and bath-water lingering on Prompto’s skin. “I might take a request, if it’s you asking.”

Oh. Oh, that’s nice. That’s a thought.

Noctis settles his hands on Prompto’s knees. “Whatever you feel like playing. I want to listen to you.”

That gets him -- warmth, in those eyes, in the hand holding the bow that flutters down into his hair, warm pressure of those fingertips catching in the dark strands for a moment before it lifts away and Prompto smiles, laughs softly. “Iris ratted you out, you know.”

“What did she say I did now,” and Noctis laughs back.

“You have an entire playlist of, and I quote, old sad bastard music in your head. And you play stuff from that list when you’re doing a live gig. Never an entire song. Always some kind of medley. She says it’s because you actually don’t know when your mom might be tuning in.”

“If I could convince her to switch over to a better data plan, I would,” he mutters, and he can roll his eyes and he’ll tell Aulea he did it and that will make her laugh. “I mean, maybe I’m an idiot, why do I want to make sure my mom can livestream my things? Maybe I want her to be proud of me. Maybe I want to tell the world she’s the root of the music. Wouldn’t have any of it without her. So.” He blinks, as Prompto starts plucking out a melody he knows. “Is that -- ?”

Smile, close-lipped, teasing -- before Prompto’s eyes fall shut and he’s falling straight into the refrain of “This Cowboy Song”, and Noctis grins and leans over, his forehead against Prompto’s knee, humming under his breath as counterpoint to the violin.

“It’s a good song,” he hears Prompto whisper.

“Mmm,” he says, because the contact with skin and bone has him distracted. The music falling onto him like curtains, like covers, poignant symphony, and he wants to show his appreciation, someway, somehow -- and he starts with a kiss to the side of Prompto’s leg.

“Hey,” he hears. The music doesn’t stop.

“Can I?” he asks.

Long trill of an extended chord and then: “Yeah. Whatever you want.”

“Don’t stop playing, please,” he murmurs, even as he’s shouldering his way into the splay of Prompto’s knees, even as he’s kissing higher and higher up Prompto’s thigh, and the movement leads him inexorably to Prompto’s cock, half-hard in the growing warmth between them. 

He repeats himself: “Can I?”

“Can I stop playing?”

“No,” and he’s chuckling, softly, as he takes Prompto in hand and strokes, once, twice, and that pretty cock throbs and twitches into full hardness. “Please?”

“I can’t promise I’ll keep going, and I’m not gonna drop my stuff onto your head.”

“As long as you can, then,” and then Noctis is leaning in, is licking his lips and then the head of Prompto’s cock. Weight on his tongue and the taste of Prompto, the feel of his thundering pulse. 

“Fuck,” small and soft against him and again the melody falters, as Noctis goes down further, as he hollows out his cheeks and sucks.

It’s so, so easy to get lost in Prompto -- to drown in the feel of him -- Noctis doesn’t notice the silence until there are hands in his hair, tugging, pulling him down further and he would laugh if he weren’t so preoccupied -- he breathes through his nose instead, and that lets him relax his throat so he can lean in, in, in, all the way in as Prompto fucks deeper and deeper into his mouth.

In no time at all he’s out of breath and he loves it, he’d stay here forever if he could, on his knees for Prompto but -- there’s a sharp twinge at the back of his head and he glances up to the tortured twist of Prompto’s smile and he’s being pulled away.

So Noctis wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and mutters, “Something wrong?”

“No.”

Prompto’s snatching at his collars, at his buttons, and Noctis grins and lets himself be pulled in, and all thoughts of the flight and of sleep and of music fall out of his head as he dives in headlong, as he lets Prompto pull him back onto the bed and into his arms --

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
